


Block, Punch, Dodge

by chasing_the_sterek



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Also Lance's surname is Sanchez because DIRTY LAUNDRY, BAMF Keith, BAMF Lance, Bayards, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, Lance has super good aiming, Lance is better than Keith was expecting lmao, M/M, Sparring, apparently that's not happening, because I love the headcanon of Lance being a super awesome sniper-type sort of guy, but also being just really good at other things, idk if i actually spelt that right, like hand-to-hand or shorter range shooting or thrOWING KNIVES, lil bit of Lance angst at the beginning, this fic was meant to be much more focused on that but nope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 19:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8070370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasing_the_sterek/pseuds/chasing_the_sterek
Summary: "You're not bad," Keith says.
  "I'm going to take that as a compliment and not think about the implication that you thought I was going to be terrible," Lance shoots back, eyes tracking Keith's hand when it twitches towards his hip.///In which Lance is a secret badass, Keith is surprisingly not as emotionally constipated as normal and everyone cheats at least little bit.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended to be something completely different, with angst and comfort and feelings flying around everywhere, but it went somewhere else entirely instead. Sorry.
> 
> This came about because I don't think what Iverson said to Lance in front of that simulator would just be forgotten in an instant. Did you see Lance's face? Did you hear how Iverson _said_ it? He said it like it was inevitable for Lance to follow in Keith's footsteps and flunk out. That no matter how much Lance wanted this, wanted to be the best pilot in the Garrison and wanted to fly, he was and always would be a no-good, disposable troublemaker who brought nothing to anybody.
> 
> That kind of thing sticks with you, y'know? Maybe it's not just homesickness Lance has to deal with.
> 
>  
> 
> This was almost called so many things. I was very tempted by "Hit The (Training) Deck" and "Guns And Swords Do Not Belong In The Sparring Arena" but idk

_"The only reason you're here is that the best pilot in your class had a discipline issue and flunked out."_

Lance opens his eyes. Breathes in. Breathes out.

_**"Don't** follow in his footsteps."_

His bayard transforms out of its gun form. Lance straightens up and collects himself, wiping the back of his hand against his forehead to wipe the sweat away.

"Training session end," Lance mutters.

He slips his bayard away, turns to the door -

And blinks. "Keith?"

Keith stares back at him, looking shocked. "Lance? Did you. . . ?"

His gaze tears itself away from Lance's face and past him, to the rest of the training deck. Lance puffs out a breath and looks back at the scene.

Silhouettes of the Galra - which seem to be the alien equivalent of training cut-outs - are stood to attention still, despite several holes blown straight through each major target point; the training robot is lying crumpled in a corner like a marionette with its strings cut, one arm barely keeping from falling off and the opposite leg sprawled haphazardly across the room. There are even singe marks on the wall underneath the observational booth, where Lance had set the moving holographic enemies to top speed.

"Uh, sorry," Lance winces, rubbing at his neck as he turns to shoot a guilty look Keith's way. "I. . . as soon as I leave the room, it usually seems to repair itself, so. Yeah. That's why I was just, y'know, leaving. I learnt about the self-cleaning thing after repeated, confused incidents where I tried to come back and clean up the marks on the wall but everything was already spotless."

Keith splutters a little bit. "How often do you _come_ here?" He demands. "Even I didn't know that."

"Not enough, probably," Lance replies. He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop in a half-shrug. "Only once, twice a week."

Keith stares. "But I've never seen you in here. _Nobody's_ seen you in here."

Lance shrugs again, and starts to pad towards the door. Unfortunately for him, it's behind Keith; to avoid looking like he's making a beeline for the other Paladin he keeps his eyes trained on the door.

This is how he misses the only prior warning before Keith's next words.

"Spar with me."

Lance stumbles through what would have been a neat sidestep past one of the Galra targets. Keith manages to dart forwards and catch his arm before he plants his face into the rapidly-oncoming floor, which would usually warrant at least _some_ kind of reaction, but Lance is still hung up on the statement that made him trip in the first place so he misses the opening completely.

He stares, wide-eyed, up at Keith. _"What?"_

A flush starts to creep up Keith's neck, and he looks like he really wants to avert his eyes. (Lance doesn't know why he doesn't.)

"Spar," he clarifies. "With me."

Lance glances back at the (very destroyed) room behind him. "I, uh. I don't think. . ."

He makes a little noise of frustration, unable to think of a way to phrase it correctly, and mutters something in Spanish that would have made his mother furious.

Lance goes to gesture towards the room at large, to articulate what he means through actions rather than words, but his arm feels heavier than normal, more sluggish, and -

Keith's still holding him, from where he helped him stay upright earlier. What was a supporting hand on his arm seems to have sort of slipped into hand-holding over the course of their conversation, and Keith's hand is - well, it's nice, actually. Warm and strong, with callouses from the pilot controls in Red and his cycle back on Earth and training (and fighting) with a sword and years of living alone in a desert. Somehow it's still soft, underneath that, and overall it's very, very comfortable and enjoyable to hold. No wonder Lance hadn't noticed while he was talking.

"Oh," Lance says absently, and, yeah, he's staring at their hands a little, but only because he's trying to work out how someone's hands can be calloused and strong _as well as_ soft and comfortable, not because he likes it or it feels oddly natural or anything.

"I - sorry!" Keith yelps, snatching his hand back sharply.

(Lance pretends not to mourn the loss.)

"No, it's, uh - it's fine." Lance rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed, as he glances to the side. "Anyway, sure?"

Keith looks confused for a couple of seconds, Lance's agreement obviously not linked in any way to whatever track his thought process had been going down, but then his memory kicks in and his face clears. "You'll spar with me?"

"Well, I won't exactly be on the same level as you," Lance agrees, one side if his mouth curving up into what almost seems like a self-deprecating grin. "I'm pretty sure you'll just be beating me up for fun over and over again."

The brunet hesitantly waves a hand, smiling victoriously when the room tidies itself in a flurry of motion after his signal before admitting that he didn't actually think that would work.

Keith laughs a little, an honest smile softening his face, then slips his jacket off and slides it along the floor to join the green one already discarded against the wall by the door. He settles into a position that appears relaxed (although still alert), but is in reality opens up multiple possibilities for both defense and offense - keeping his options open, unsure of how Lance is going to start the match off. Keith's only really ever sparred with Shiro, once or twice with Pidge; he has no idea how Lance moves, or reacts to certain situations. They've shared battles before, yes, and he's watched him a little, sure, but he's never actually fought him one-on-one. Lance is, on this occasion, a wild card.

Said "wild card" hasn't ever fought Keith. He's watched him train for hours on end as he sketches - both with and without the Paladin's knowledge - and they've spent a bit of time together during fights, which gives him (as far as Lance knows) more information on Keith's fighting style than vice versa.

Lance settles into a fighting position too, a couple of feet away from the other pilot, and starts to scan for gaps.

There's a brief second where both of them eye each other warily, and then they're both surging forward in the same burst of movement, Lance dropping to the floor to kick Keith's legs out from under him and Keith leaning one hand on his shoulders as he vaults over him to avoid the kick and attempt to gain the upper hand.

They separate, coming together long enough for Keith to send a controlled right hook at Lance's face. The would-be recipient uses his forearm to block the blow, aiming a punch of his own to Keith's solar plexus, but Keith dodges it neatly, albeit barely, and they separate again after Lance avoids a kick to the shin that would have made it a little painful to walk on.

Lance's eyes are narrowed with focus, Keith's hair up in a messy bun somehow despite having been down when they began sparring. Lance is barefoot, so he has more grip, but Keith's socked feet let him literally _slide_ out of the way, so they're both theoretically at an advantage there. Lance's tank top has no sleeves, allowing him more range of movement, but Keith's black t-shirt isn't quite as loose and he doesn't get momentarily distracted by moving fabric like Lance does once or twice.

They circle for a moment, then dive in, and Lance loses himself in the unstable rhythm he and Keith have created; block, punch, block, block, kick, punch, dodge, separate.

Keith's punch is a feint; his hand lands heavily on Lance's forearm, fingers digging into the flesh there slightly to enable a good grip. An attempt at a flip, then - Lance turns the tables, flips them, if you will: he leans backwards sharply, bending as far back as he can without falling over or touching the floor. He tightens his arms where they're around Keith's waist, then lets go and dances away from the kick Keith lashes out with in retaliation once he gets up.

Keith takes a moment to rub the places that hit the floor a second ago when Lance flipped him, then wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, inspecting at the back of his hand like he's looking for something - maybe the punch to the jaw Lance landed earlier made it feel like it was bleeding? Keith looks up, narrowing his eyes and starting to prowl in a circle with Lance again, a little smirk settling on the side of his mouth.

"You're not bad," Keith says.

"I'm going to take that as a compliment and not think about the implication that you thought I was going to be terrible," Lance shoots back, eyes tracking Keith's hand when it twitches towards his hip.

Bayards are coming into play soon, apparently.

"It was meant as a compliment," Keith replies, eyes glinting as he analyses Lance's stance for gaps he can manipulate.

"Flattery won't create openings, Keith." Lance smirks when Keith's eyes snap up to his in surprise. "I grew up with seven siblings. You think I don't know those sorts of tricks when I hear them?"

The other Paladin laughs. "I love how you think I'm lying to you," he says, and Lance barely has half a second to register the kinds of things that retort suggests before Keith's sword is arcing through the air towards him, the person wielding it following quickly after it, eyes focused and determined and somehow a little smug.

He looks like he knows he's going to win. And, well, Lance can't have that.

His bayard slips easily into the familiar blue gun, and he raises it swiftly to block the blade. He feels his own eyes sparkling with mirth and energy when Keith's face betrays his shock for a split second before he reigns it in and backs off slightly; a mistake. Lance fires off a couple of shots at Keith's feet, forcing him to dance back further, the increased distance rendering him completely unable to make any kind of surprise attack. Lance watches him realise this, finding amusement in the odd sort of begrudgingly amused (and maybe even vaguely impressed) fury in his eyes.

Keith flexes his sword hand. Light reflects off of the flat of the blade and shines brightly into Lance's eyes, but he squints past the temporary blindness as much as possible so he can dodge Keith's sword again. The evasion isn't good enough, as evidenced by the cut now decorating his upper arm, and he spares it the briefest of glances before firing straight through a section of the hair tie holding the Red Paladin's bun up as the other teen passes. Keith's hair falls around his face distractingly, buying Lance a little bit of time during which he can rub the rest of the light out of his retinas.

(For a second, they pause. Take a breath. Blink remaining light away and shift hair around so they can see.)

Lance lifts his gun and shoots at Keith, who's suddenly flying through the air towards him, sword raised high and a snarl on his lips.

Two things happen at once.

Lance's shot hits Keith on the hip. He set his bayard to a lower level earlier, and all the bullet (is it still a bullet if it's a sort of futuristic laser gun?) seems to do is give Keith the equivalent of a strong static shock and a first degree burn. Keith yelps a little, obviously not expecting it, and falters slightly before moving into a ready position.

Keith's sword gives Lance a nice slash across his chest. It's not that deep, as far as the Blue Paladin can tell, but it's sliced his tank top clean open, which both prophesises an irritatingly fiddly job to sew up neatly and more distraction on Lance's part. Some blood spills, sure, but it's not like he's going to die so Lance simply settles back into a fighting stance and grits his teeth against the stinging.

"You doing okay over there, Kogane?" He asks, gasping for breath a little, eyeing the hole in Keith's t-shirt with a (mild!) concern he will later deny.

"Just perfect," Keith answers, also breathing heavier than normal. "You getting ready to tap out?"

"You wish."

"If I say that I do wish, would you give up already?"

"Why? You getting tired?"

"Of you? Definitely."

Lance laughs under his breath. "Tired of me winning, more like. You're going down."

"Ladies first," Keith says, and lunges forwards.

Lance uses his bayard to block again, raising his leg to knee Keith in the stomach. Keith wheezes a little, eyes widening and hands going a bit slack, and Lance grabs the opportunity to yank Keith's bayard from his fingers. Keith's eyes narrow at the clatter of it being flung across the room, and tears Lance's gun from him with a growl. The blue bayard joins the red on the floor, both returning to their handle-like forms, but neither of their users pay them any attention.

Lance goes in for a forceful right hook, but Keith catches his fist and shoves against it to push it away from his face. Keith's leg wraps around Lance's, threatening to trip him up; Lance slides his left leg further back to accommodate and keep himself firmly planted upright. Lance pushes harder into Keith's hand, trying to force it back with a snarl that echoes his partner's from earlier, and that decision is his downfall - Keith's other hand goes to shove at his chest, and Lance wobbles ominously before toppling backwards, stabilising leg placement be damned. He grabs a hold of Keith's shirt, though, because if he's going down then Keith is too.

They separate during the fall, then collide again - Lance's arms and hands are free, but Keith has both of his legs pinned with his weight. Keith's hands are pressing into Lance's chest in an effort to keep him down even as Lance pulls at the other's wrists to free himself.

"You're pinned, Sanchez, just -"

"That's what they want you to think!" Lance shrieks at the top of his lungs, using Keith's surprised jolt backwards to push him onto his back and lean over him. Lance sits on his legs, the same thing Keith was doing just a hot minute ago, and pins his arms down.

Lance grins down at the scowling teen underneath him, cheerful and laughing, and he's not homesick or fighting giant purple cats or panicking about his semi-sentient blue robot lion. He's just. . . here.

It's nice.

"Hello, there," Lance says, attempting a smirk but failing not-so miserably when he laughs throughout the whole attempt. "What's a boy like you doing in a place like this?"

"Trying to train," Keith mutters, pulling at Lance's grip. "But lucky me was paired with a dork who believes in aliens and spouts pickup lines when we're sparring."

"Excuse you," Lance says with faux offense, leaning backwards a bit to show just how wounded he is by that. "Aliens exist. I've seen 'em. With my two eyes. They _abducted_ me, you know."

That earns him an eye-roll. "Theoretically you abducted yourself. You're the one who got in the damn blue lion in the first place."

"That's an irritatingly sensible way of looking at it."

Keith's lips twitch up into the tiniest smile Lance has ever seen. If he weren't this close he would have missed it.

Lance said it before - he grew up as one of eight kids. As a direct result of that, Lance is strong, and he can pin someone down easily. Unlike with Keith, it's harder to catch him off-guard by hollering weird shit without warning.

However, roughhousing and wrestling with siblings does _not_ prepare you to stay on-guard when someone is kissing you.

Lance makes a surprised noise, then melts into it with a little hum. He feels Keith smile against his mouth.

There's a push to one side of his chest, a slight thud as he's rolled sideways, and then Keith pulls away.

Lance blinks up at him, dazed.

"You alright there, Lance?" Keith asks, laughing, but there's a flush on his face that betrays how happy he is.

 _Pull yourself together, Sanchez._ Lance blinks again, harder, to clear his mind, and then tries to sit up, only to find he can't.

What?

Keith starts laughing again, harder than before, at the sight of what is no doubt his very confused expression. Lance ignores him in favour of taking stock of his position - his hands are held together above him, Keith straddling his hips, a forearm moving to his throat to keep him down.

When did he. . .

"Wha - _how -"_

He yanks at the grip on his hands, but Keith doesn't budge. Lance was distracted enough to allow Keith to get into a scarily effective position, apparently: his forearm's putting enough pressure on Lance's neck for him to not even want to attempt to move his head, and Keith's legs are twined around Lance's in such a way that he can't move anything other than his feet.

"Yield?" Keith suggests helpfully, grinning down at him.

Lance glares back. "Fuck you, Kogane."

"I'm going to take that as a yes," Keith says, voice full of mirth, and climbs off of him when Lance sighs and rolls his eyes.

Keith goes to pick up their bayards, still smiling, while Lance takes a quick stock of his various scrapes and tries to ignore the feeling still lingering on his lips. (There's tingling sort of pressure there, like Keith's lips are still on his -)

"Is your chest okay?"

"Don't worry," Lance answers. "Apparently I'm not fated to die today. How's your hip?"

Keith hands him his bayard and offers a hand to help him stand. "Fine. I just wasn't expecting you to actually shoot at me, y'know?"

"This is coming from the guy who was trying to chop me up onto little pocket-sized Lance bits, right?"

"I blunted the edge of the blade a little," Keith argues. "And I put less power into the moves. You can't exactly calculate a way to make a bullet hit someone gently."

"Not really, no," Lance says. "But I can change the bullet, can't I? Just like you changed how sharp your sword was."

Keith sighs, shaking his head, and starts to head for their crumpled jackets. Lance reaches one hand after him and takes a step forwards before he stops himself and retracts his arm. Keith's never really been one for major physical contact - one kiss most likely hasn't changed that.

"Um, hey," Lance says, and stares at his feet awkwardly, blushing, when Keith turns around to look at him.

"What's up?" Keith says, curious.

Lance feels his face best up even more. He's pretty sure he would be camouflaged next to the Red Lion at this point. He says his question as fast as possible to get it over with. "Didthekissmeananythingtoyou?"

"What?"

Lance clears his throat. "Ummm. . . Did the kiss, y'know, mean anything? Or was it purely just to win?"

There are footsteps, like Keith's walking back to him, but Lance doesn't dare look up from his shoes.

"What makes you think it was just to win?"

Lance shakes his head and smiles wryly at the floor of the training deck. "Maybe the fact that you literally gave no signs of what is obviously a deep and inescapable infatuation with me? Maybe because -"

He would say more - he has a whole barrage of arguments set up, in fact - but his mouth is suddenly occupied with much more important things, Keith's fingers lingering on his chin from where he tilted Lance's head up.

The kiss ends a little while later, Keith's eyes soft and warm and loving when Lance meets them.

"Is that evidence enough for you?"

"I don't know," Lance says, letting his eyes fall to Keith's lips. "Maybe I need a little bit more persuading."

**Author's Note:**

> KEITH WOULD ABSOLUTELY DO THIS BC HE RUNS ON INSTINCTS ALONE FIGHT ME
> 
> I'm guiltily proud of some of these lines. Especially the ones where they use last names.
> 
> Using last names in those sorts of playful arguments gives me life. I have no blood, just the words "Sanchez" and "Kogane" carved on the insides of my heart.
> 
> (Lance blushes so much the way I write him lmao)
> 
>  
> 
> By the way, [this is my tumblr if you want it.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/total-master-of-geekiness)


End file.
